


Angel Investors (The Grace and Frankie Crossover Nobody Asked For But Everybody's Getting Regardless)

by phinnia



Category: Good Omens, Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Grace and Frankie (TV)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 21:07:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21204110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phinnia/pseuds/phinnia
Summary: Crowley is, naturally, responsible for Hollywood.  And women's power suits.   Azriaphale does not recognize that painting of Frankie. Yam lube does interesting things to celestial beings.  Early season 2 of Grace and Frankie.





	Angel Investors (The Grace and Frankie Crossover Nobody Asked For But Everybody's Getting Regardless)

They were on their way to Los Angeles. Crowley was there because she had some kind of management trash at one of the companies she'd set up last time she was here - something to do with Hollywood agents, it was all a lot of paperwork, sort of like Hell - and Aziraphale wanted to come along, so they miracled themselves across the pond, rented a car and drove out to Hollywood. The car was nothing like the Bentley, but it was nice. It was a red convertible. Crowley reminded herself how much she loved driving with the top down. England and its bloody weather.

"We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold." she quoted.

"Hunter S. Thompson." Aziraphale murmured, holding on to her wide-brimmmed sunhat desperately. "One of yours?"

"Of course! He was my flatmate for a while. Surprised you've read it." She peers over her sparkly red sunglasses. "Or maybe I shouldn't be."

"Well, one must keep up with the other side." Aziraphale raises a delicate blonde eyebrow. 

'The other side', of course, meant 'you', and that made her feel fluttery inside. 

"The most terrible thing about America is that they drive on the wrong side of the road." Aziraphale says. 

"Ever been to Macau?" Crowley shouts over the wind.

"Er, no. Why?"

"It's an _island_. They drive on the left, but they make you make the changeover from right-hand-drive _on the bridge in._."

Aziraphale laughs in startlement.

"And _I had nothing to do with it_."

"You're joking."

She takes both hands off the wheel and steers with her bare feet. "Serious as Pompeii. Serious as the blessed Flood. Bloody humans again."

"The things they do just to make their lives complicated." Aziraphale shakes her head, smiling in amusement. "Will you kindly stop driving with your feet, dear thing? Although I do _adore_ that shade of red toenail polish on you."

"Oh, all right." 

The coffee was at least marginally better in L.A., although Aziraphale had said she couldn't buy any plants and she was pouting about that and Bless it was bloody early, not to mention the fucking time change. What time was it? She looked down at her watch, which she was carrying in her enormous black purse. Nine-thirty in the blessed morning. 

How did Aziraphale manage to be so Blessed _cheerful_ at this hour? And look so Blessed _fantastic_ at the same time? She was over there talking to some blonde woman (rail-thin in a power suit - Crowley remembered being responsible for those, and she was especially satisfied about the shoulder pads) and she managed to look completely _natural_ in a white sundress with little blue flowers on it, and that Blessed sunhat. 

Why in the name of Lucifer Morningstar was there a Blessed painting of a _cunt_ on full display out here? Just out there, on an easel? 

She had to check this out. 

There was a woman with one of those long, ridiculous hippie dresses on behind the cunt table. And there were jars on the table filled with some kind of ... orange, gloopy stuff. 

"Antonia!" Aziraphale says. "This is my partner, Antonia Crowley. Antonia, this is Grace Hanson, and this is her flatmate, Frankie Bergstein."

She nudged, slightly. No, they actually _were_ flatmates. Huh.

"Charmed." Crowley says. "What is this?"

"Oh, it's a test market." Grace replies. "It's a sexual aid that Frankie came up with. It's all-natural. Would you like to try some?"

"It's made of yams." Frankie pipes up from behind the table. "Organic."

"Certainly." Azriaphale says, almost automatically, and the jar of gloppy orange ... stuff is dropped in Crowley's enormous black purse. 

"Such a lovely abstract you've done, Frankie." Azriaphale waves at the painting. "Not really to my taste, but it's very ... vibrant and expressive."

Crowley almost chokes on her coffee. "Come on, angel. Let's go."

"Don't you realize what that is?" she mutters as soon as they are far enough away.

"She said it was herself." 

Crowley snorts. "I bet she did. Think. What does it look like?"

"An abstract painting."

"Think _again_, angel. Think with your _fingers._ What do you like to do best with them?"

"Well - " Crowley actually sees her jaw dropping. "Oh, my gracious!"

"Yes, exactly. Come on."

"But she can't -"

"She did."

"You didn't do -"

"I had absolutely _nothing_ to do with it. I swear on _Adam._ Let's go, angel."


End file.
